


Lies

by JennaCupcakes



Series: We Can All Still Burn Our Fingers [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1848, AU, Gen, another country another revolution, be warned somebody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 18th March is a day of lies and one truth that everybody refuses to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Two warnings: This is not beta-read, and somebody's going to die. 
> 
> Notes on the Büchner quote(s) will be found at the end. Please point out any historical inaccuracies.

_18 th March 1848_

The air of this morning in March was a lie.

It was a lie, because it held the promise of days that were just barely out of reach, of days full of sun at the Spree, of sunlit alleyways to be discovered, and a laugh and a friendship carried by a summer’s breeze. It was a lie because it made those things seem so close.

Behind closed doors and brick walls that the treacherous breeze of spring had not yet been able to penetrate, the mindset was another: there was business and activity, and the smell of gunpowder lingered on juvenile fingers held the lie of _just in case, just in case this certainty goes wrong_.

“We will be marching together,” was the stern order – lie? – Enjolras uttered, his friends collected around him like a horde of stray dogs, “Nobody deters from my side. I want you with me, so I may protect you.”

“We do not need protection,” Bahorel grumbled, also lied maybe, but could he really be blamed for not knowing better? He had but twenty-four years of experience to look back upon, and still believed himself invincible. It was the arrogance of youth, combined with a certain cockiness that bordered on being reckless.

Then again, a lie was still a lie.

Combeferre stepped in front of the group next to Enjolras. “It is almost time for the king’s speech now. We should go.”

They shouldn’t have.

—Ψ—

Enjolras frown just became more prominent as the crowd in front of the palace grew larger and larger.

“Do you hear them,” he whispered to Combeferre, “They’re saying we’ll be granted a constitution.”

Combeferre crossed his arms. There was a gun hidden under his waistcoat that pressed uncomfortably against his chest. “This is bad, Enjolras,” he muttered, “You know this won’t be the outcome of today. There is no way the king could give in to that without destabilising the entire system.”

“It will be alright,” Enjolras replied quietly, like a mantra, “If we stay calm, it will be alright.”

“The king!” Courfeyrac called from somewhere behind them, and heads turned towards the balcony of the palace, where indeed the short, stout figure of king Friedrich Wilhelm was showing, clad in a dark uniform with a red cravat, his arms clasped behind his back and his gaze stern and unyielding.

The voiced of the crowd grew louder, cheer and elation echoing on the square at the appearance of the king. He just stood there on the balcony, waiting, looking, while the amount of noise rose in expectancy.

“He always promised a constitution!” someone shouted, “Now he’s finally seen that it’s inevitable!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Enjolras cursed under his breath,” Have you missed the part where he said that elected representatives would be an affront against the natural order of things?”

Combeferre put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Maybe it will turn out alright.”

“Why can’t we get closer?” Feuilly asked with an irritated frown,” There are at least twenty feet between the palace and the crowd, what’s going on there?”

“There’s troops,” Bahorel remarked, “Trust them to take everything too seriously.”

“Sh, he’s speaking,” Courfeyrac hissed angrily and squinted. About fifty feet away, the king did indeed seem to be moving his lips, but nothing could be heard.

“Everybody be quiet!” Enjolras ordered loud enough to calm the voices of quite some people around them, but the general buzz and noise remained.

“He’s granting us our constitution,” one whispered next to Combeferre, and another picked up, “There you have it, he never wanted us any harm. We don’t need a revolution.”

“Long live the king!” somebody called, “Long live the people!”

Enjolras frowned and tugged at Combeferre’s sleeve. “This is not good.”

Combeferre turned and smiled sadly, and suddenly the weight of the gun under his clothes was reassuring rather than uncomfortable. He couldn’t say why, but the infinite optimism of the people around him made him uncomfortable, and maybe the gun felt like a reminder that he still knew that things could turn out wrong. “Wait,” he insisted nevertheless, “They will be quiet in a minute, and then we will see.”

They moved further forward, and suddenly Grantaire was next to Enjolras, a dark newsboy cap on his head almost obscuring his features. He smirked, that much was still recognisable. “Those troops didn’t come here because they enjoy standing in front of a large shouting crowd, Enjolras.”

“I know,” Enjolras replied between clenched teeth, “Don’t take me for a fool just because I believe in something, Grantaire.”

“Sometimes I think you forget that despite his romanticist notions, our king has been educated by some of the best military strategists of our time.”

“This is no war.”

“You’re right. A war would imply that we have the means to fight back.”

And then he was gone again, disappeared from where Enjolras could see him, and he was feeling even more uneasy. Maybe he should have told his friends to go, but could they really leave at such a historic time? They had to be present for it, had to be present in case their wishes should really be granted...

“Why won’t they let us get closer?”

The angry shout pierced the discontent buzz of voices, and others picked up with affirmative nods and loudly uttered agreements.

“We can’t hear a word of what’s being said, why do they keep the king from us?”

“Get the troops away from here!”

“Away with the troops!”

There was a sort of confidence in the air that sickened Enjolras now that Grantaire’s words were hanging there, too, like he had poisoned what would otherwise be a promising start. He had been uneasy before, yes, but now he was repelled. The crowd had seemed wild before, now it seemed dangerous.

“Everybody stay close,” he ordered.

“Move aside!” another order was heard, and the people parted. Enjolras lost sight of Joly, Bahorel and Bossuet, but couldn’t believe his eyes – they were indeed making room for the troops to retreat. Courfeyrac laughed, disbelieving, relieved, and Jehan clapped wildly with a wide smile on his face.

“Hold on!” Combeferre suddenly muttered, and at the same time a drum roll could be heard.

“It’s the signal for the troops to retreat!” Marius called, and it did indeed seem this was true.

Well, who would mind one more lie on a day full of lies.

The noise of the crowd had again, not for the first time today, drowned out the important sounds, which was why the group of friends in this large accumulation of people heard the sound of hooves on the pavement too late – too late, in any case, to get out.

People started moving, forced to make room for the soldiers on horses  driving them away from the square, cleaning it from the expectant crowd, and now disappointment grew loud, anger erupted.

“Stay close!” Enjolras ordered frantically while the people around them pushed and they were forced to move with them. Their hopefulness had turned into a nightmare.

The square was halfway empty when the crowd started moving more slowly, even though the soldiers were still pushing forward as relentlessly. Combeferre caught sight of Joly and hauled him close to the group again, together with Bahorel and Bossuet who had been lost for a minute. Enjolras breathed easier at the sight of his friends united once more.

Two gunshots echoed through the air, and silence fell.

—Ψ—

“Treason!”

The crowd wasn’t moving back anymore, they were standing their ground against the troops of the king.

“Treason!”

“Back, everyone back!” Enjolras called, “We need to get out of here before they start shooting at the crowd again!”

“We’re not getting out of here without getting our revenge on those damn bastards,” Bahorel growled.

“We can’t fight on an open square!” Combeferre shouted and pulled his sleeve angrily, “Now let’s get out of here!”

They pushed, following others that seemingly had the same idea. The first barricades were already rising when the friends reached the relative safety of the first streets, the troops close behind them. Before them, people were collecting weapons, cobblestones, building and defending themselves with what they could find – guns, rifles, pikes, sabres, axes, hammers, it was a varied assortment.

“Stay here,” Enjolras called breathlessly when they reached a side road to the boulevard, “We’ll stay here.”

Bahorel nodded grimly, and he and Feuilly set to find building material immediately. Bossuet and Joly followed them.

“What on earth just happened?” Courfeyrac shouted. There was disappointment on his face, the same disappointment that had been apparent in the crowd, only he seemed even more hurt by the turn of events. Enjolras ran a hand trough his hair and tried to calm his breathing.

“We made wrong assumptions, and now we’re paying for it,” Grantaire offered, and Enjolras glared at him angrily.

“It was a misunderstanding between the king and the troops, I’m sure,” he replied.

“Even you can’t be that blind,” Grantaire sneered.

“He was about to announce something. There was no reason for a reaction as violent as the troops showed.”

Enjolras silently still tried to explain the sudden outburst of violence for himself when Bahorel and Feuilly returned with a cart full of bricks and wide smiles. “There’s a mason and his shop right around the corner. We took the liberty of confiscating some of his supplies.”

Jehan and Courfeyrac helped them pile up the stones while Joly and Bossuet carried tables and chairs and what else they could find and piled it up on the street.

“I refuse to believe that the king sanctioned this,” Enjolras decided, “He might not want democracy, but he also wouldn’t want this.”

“Does it matter?” Combeferre muttered, “We’ll still have to fight.”

“It does matter,” Enjolras said.

It was only half a lie – it mattered for some. For those who would survive this day.

—Ψ—

Their barricade was only half ready when a battalion of Prussian soldiers showed at the end of the street, guns ready and aimed at the boys on top of the barricade.

“Down!” Feuilly shouted, and everybody dropped to the ground just in time to let the first assault go to waste.

“We’re not ready to fight!” Courfeyrac called.

“We’ll have to make do,” Enjolras replied, “Everybody stay calm.”

“I am calm, believe me,” Bahorel growled, “Now let me shoot someone and I’ll even be _serene_.”

“We don’t have much ammunition,” Courfeyrac reminded him. He’d counted the amount of bullets and powder and guns and it had been demoralising to say the least.

“Don’t let them get too close,” Combeferre ordered, “Only shoot when they’re threatening to overcome us.”

Bullets were flying once more.

“Bastards,” Bahorel muttered, “What are they shooting at us for?”

The troops were getting closer. Enjolras peeked over the half-high wall of bricks and furniture and chewed on his bottom lip. “Okay, guns ready,” he ordered.

The others fell into position. Enjolras waited, counted to five in his head.

“Fire!” he called, and the troops stopped dead as they found themselves on the receiving end of the assault for once. One dropped to the ground, but the rest seemed unharmed.

“We can’t hold this position,” Combeferre decided, and Enjolras agreed. “Back, everyone back!”

They ran, and the troops sped up too as they saw the group of students running, but they turned a corner before anyone could get hurt – and almost stumbled into another barricade.

“Hands up!” a voice called, and the students automatically raised their hands – though they were still holding their weapons.

“They’re not soldiers,” another voice – the voice of a woman – said decidedly, “Get up here, now.”

Hands were offered to the students climbing the barricade and just as Bossuet, who almost slipped and fell, was pulled over, the soldiers followed around the corner.

“Hold your fire!” the woman called, and then, just as the soldiers aimed their guns at the barricade, she called, “Fire!”

Two more of the soldiers dropped to the ground, and the others hastily retreated back behind the corner to figure out a new plan of attack.

Enjolras straightened himself and turned to the woman. “Thank you,” he said, and then addressed the entire barricade, “You just saved our lives.”

The woman smiled. “Who am I to let someone die who could maybe do me a favour?”

She held out her hand. “Eponine.”

Enjolras shook it, and she pointed to the man standing next to her. “That’s Montparnasse. You don’t need to know the rest. What’s your name?”

“Enjolras,” he replied, “And those are my friends.”

Eponine nodded. “Now that we all know each other we should get some more supplies. I sent Musichetta to find some more ammunition; she should be back before nightfall...”

“We’re almost out of ammunition,” Courfeyrac called, “We would appreciate it if you could share.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Eponine said, “We do need our supplies, but I suppose you could help.”

“Help?” Bahorel snorted. “Do you want to put my aim to test?”

Eponine gave him a considering look, her eyebrows raised. “I hope it’s not as lousy as your choice in clothing.”

Next to her, Montparnasse chuckled. Enjolras glared at Bahorel and then called Combeferre to come over. “We should discuss strategies.”

Eponine’s smile was bright and wicked. “Agreed.”

—Ψ—

“They have cannons.”

When Musichetta returned, she brought ammunition, bad news, and some food from a friendly innkeeper who was siding with the revolutionaries.

“Where?”

Enjolras, Eponine, Combeferre and Montparnasse were sitting in a circle around a map of Berlin – nobody had asked Montparnasse how he’d convinced the owner to give it up, it seemed to be very detailed and consequently very expensive – to see how their chances where considering the strength of the Prussian army. Musichetta considered the map with a frown.

“They’re still pretty far off,” she said and pointed to streets that were the opposite direction of the square in front of the palace. “Is seems to be more heated there. They never even stop shooting.”

It was quickly getting dark now, and the troops or more likely the king showed no signs of relenting. Enjolras found himself wondering how they’d ended up here so fast.

“He’s determined to end this,” he said grimly, “The king will not show weakness now.”

“He cannot kill us all,” Eponine said defiantly.

“He can try,” Montparnasse said, “And even if he can’t kill us all, he can kill enough to demoralise the rest.”

“We will start by distributing the ammunition.” Enjolras’ voice remained reassuring. “And if they attack again, we will drive them back. The barricade is strong, and we have considerable strength in numbers now.”

“I heard the king is desperate,” Musichetta mused, “He keeps sending out more troops, even though the officers are begging him to end this.”

“I don’t think they would beg him,” Feuilly said in passing, “Have you ever seen a Prussian officer beg?”

“True.” Musichetta shrugged. “Still, not all of them want to fight.”

“They will still follow their orders.” That was Grantaire’s voice, and it was raspy from alcohol and maybe from screams he never uttered. He seemed desperate, but that could have been a trick of the light. “Germany is now a field of cadavers.”

Jehan, who had been sitting on top of an overturned box, looked up at that line. “Soon she will be paradise.”

“Stop putting my Büchner quotes back into the right context,” Grantaire muttered, “Leave me at least that bit of disillusionment.”

—Ψ—

“They’re back!” Courfeyrac shouted from his post on the barricade where he’d been watching the street. Immediately, everyone on the barricade was at attention and had their weapons ready.

It was too dark to distinguish the faces now, and they had refrained from putting up a light for it would help their opponents as much as it would help them. They all had gunpowder sticking to their fingers, and their hands were sweaty even though the nights in the March of Berlin were not quite warm yet.

“You can lay your weapons down,” the officer leading the troops called. Enjolras could barely make him out in the darkness of the alley, but he saw shapes that were enough to put a clear picture together.

“Then why are you still holding yours?”

He didn’t aim to sound challenging, but it came out challenging nevertheless. Combeferre was standing next to him, and he looked just as grim and distrustful as Enjolras himself.

“We don’t have to fight anymore,” the officer replied.

“Why?” Enjolras asked, but his question was drowned out by a louder voice shouting ‘ _Fire’_ from atop the barricade, and Enjolras was lucky that Combeferre reacted quick enough to pull them both down.

“Who was that?” he called, but the only response he heard was gunfire and then silence as the weapons were recharged.

“Who was that?”

There was no response from this side of the barricade, but a clear order to fire again sounded from the other.

“Everybody take cover!” he shouted.

There was a muffled scream, and then silence.

“Bahorel’s down!” Feuilly called, and Joly hurried over from his post and dropped to his knees next to the limp figure of their friend.

“No, no, no!” Enjolras cursed, “Who gave the order to fire? Who was that?”

Nobody replied, and Enjolras tried to ignore the silence that came from where Bahorel was lying on the ground. Only Joly was muttering frantically and shouting at Feuilly to get him some bandages.

On the ground, Bahorel coughed out a laugh. “Well wasn’t that fun.”

“Shut up you idiot,” Joly replied, “You’ve been shot.”

“I know.” Bahorel’s grin was wider than ever. “Isn’t it exciting?”

Feuilly returned with a tablecloth he ripped in half and Joly pressed it to the bleeding wound in Bahorel’s stomach. “You’re a fucking moron.”

Bahorel coughed again. “Wanna hears something funny?”

“No,” Feuilly replied.

“They’ve been telling me...” He was struggling to speak. “They’ve been telling me... over and over again... the same lie.”

“What lie?”

Bahorel sighed, maybe it was supposed to be a laugh, they couldn’t really tell. “Resistance is futile.”

Enjolras clenched his shaking hands and forced himself to look away to scan the crowd. When he caught Eponine’s eye, she looked away quickly. With three quick steps he was standing in front of her, his eyes fixed on her with frightening determination. “Who gave the order to fire?”

She evaded his gaze, but crossed her arms defiantly. “They were going to shoot us anyway.”

“It wasn’t you,” Enjolras said, because he would have recognised her voice – it was still the voice of a woman, even though she talked strategy better than some of the men he knew.

“Montparnasse,” she said with a sigh, and then returned his fierce gaze, “He was right for all I care, they were planning on attacking us anyway, at least we had the moment of surprise that way...”

She was interrupted abruptly by the quiet voice of Joly.

“Bahorel’s dead.”

—Ψ—

_As Friedrich Wilhelm came to the realisation that the fight wasn’t one to be won, he picked up a pen shortly after midnight – maybe with a sigh, who knew – and took a sheet of paper, the sort of expensive paper that only those who have been living on the money of the people all their life could afford._

_It was to write a proclamation to the citizens of Berlin._

_A proclamation that promised the end of the fighting._

_He sent out word with his officers, imploring his citizens to lay down arms and to look to the future they could achieve together, for in his heart he had felt defeat from the moment on where he had stepped out on the balcony._

_The fighting was over by dawn, even though the officers still met resistance at some of the barricades. There were those who wouldn’t believe what they heard, those who had been told too many lies and thought the ceasefire to be another trick of the king._

_(It was only sad because there were so many deaths that could have been avoided if they had been able to tell apart a truth from a lie.)_

_(Bahorel’s death was one of them.)_

**Author's Note:**

> "Germany is now a field of cadavers, soon she will be a paradise." (Georg Büchner, Der Hessische Landbote)
> 
> If you want to look up Wilhelm's proclamation, it's called 'An meine lieben Berliner'.


End file.
